Nothing says HAPPY NEW YEAR more than a good chunky spew

I have been blogging here and there for over six years now so my dislike nay hatred of all things celebratory on New Year’s Eve.

In true The Secret form, I visualise a night of shit and receive a night of shit.
Jasper had this disturbing cough from just before Christmas and then Grover caught it but went straight to spasmodic croup (this means the seal-sounding cough with STRYDOR!) and holy crap people, if there is a worse patient in the world than Grover then just kill them with a stake through the heart now because they are the devil child and no good will come from their existence. 
We have already established that Grover is not a morning person. Holy HELL the attitude this kid has when he gets up is the equivalent to me in full PMT flight with a few nights of broken sleep AND a hangover. Cranky is what his toe is. The rest of him is just one big hot steaming ball of flames and anger and vitriol and “I WAN BOT BOT NOW MUMMY, NOW” as he pries apart my eyeballs, rips of the sheets and jumps on my head. 
A child only a mother could love MY TIRED SORRY ARSE.
He got croup. Jasper’s cough became ear-ache and HELLO sleep deprivation with a side-order of seeing the doctor on New Year’s Eve. 
Antibiotics and ventolin for Jasper because yes, there is a wheeze in that there chest and wow, he doesn’t have rickets or some other malnutritive (shut up, it so is a word tonight) disease from living solely on plain pasta and boiled rice with soy sauce but lowly asthma. It’s like early childhood healthcare 101 for dummies over here.
AND steroids for Grover because yes, we probably should have taken him to hospital during the night but our doctor so gets us and how well drilled we are on The Croup that some predmix will knock it on the head. And does he/has he had a temperature? Not sure. Oh look, it’s 39C. Maternal instinct SCORE!
So, $200 later at the pharmacy thanks to needing every form of pain medication this household ever owns as well as the scripts as well as the various multivitamins to stop my head spinning and a $2.95 mud mask for my face because every lady deserves to peel her face off once and a while and a jumbo packet of baby wipes because holy shit people that stuff cleans oil-based paints off walls (and go on, ask me how I know that top housekeeping tip) we were home and doping up the children. 
But here’s the thing. Grover will not take any form of  pain medication whatsoever. Oh I know what you’re all doing, rolling your eyes and tut-tutting at me for these gross generalisations. Well picture me this you Dr Spockettes, Chef pinning Grover down on his lap, Grover’s head wedged in the nook of his elbow against Chef’s body, one of Grover’s arms behind Chef’s back and the other arm firmly gripped by Chef, while with his other hand Chef is prising open Grover’s rabid lock-jaw while I, with the syringe filled with poison Children’s Panadol or Neurofen or whichever one I’ve convinced myself he spits less of hold his nose with one hand and squirt small amounts of diesel drugs that will make him feel better right down the back of his throat while blowing on his face to make him swallow and then dodging the lighter fluid liquid as he somehow manages to breath through his gills spit straight back into my eye. 
Try doing that every four hours and see how FUCKING INSANE you are by day’s end. 
So Chef and I pep-talked each other for getting the Predmix into him. But the little fucker just drank that stuff straight down. AND, get this – that stuff tastes like lighter fluid. Go fucking figure. 
So, about three or four hours after getting the first dose of steroid into him things start going a little haywire – things like him getting wigged out by the slightest of slights or being even more belligerent than usual or screaming just that little bit more louder or kicking and screaming over nothing much at all. I mean, it was like normal early-morning behaviour on hyper-drive. In the afternoon. 
By around 8pm on New Years Eve it had truly gone pear shaped and Chef and I swear we saw his head do a full 360. 
Then there was the craptacular spew at around 10pm followed by a solid FIVE hours of screaming, kicking, hitting, crying, wailing, gnashing of teeth, screaming, anger anger anger and here, let me kick you in the ovaries, testicles, kidneys, boobs, head, back, head, head head just to ensure you understand just HOW FUCKING PISSED OFF I AM.
The neighbours took pity and got home around 12.30am and by 1am had some awesome techno music pumping out for the next two hours or so. It was kind of the perfect sound track. 
In the end I slept for a minute on the lounge – as did he. I think. Either that or he snuck off outside to bite the heads of some neighbourhood chickens by the blue moon. 
Needless to say, I didn’t give him the second dose. 
Happy fucking New Year.